Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  My one source of real comfort was an Australian Ladies’ Companion recipe for the twenty-minute sponge cake. In my expert hands, the twenty-minute sponge naturally led to the forty-minute trifle. With practice, I found I could pack quite a few trifles into a hard day at the kitchen sink. Ultimately, the trifles took their toll.

  One morning Mum caught me coming out of The Ensuite shower with a towel around my middle. It was a regular bathroom towel but didn’t have enough wrap to cover both my lower half and my bottle tops, which peeked over the towel edge like a couple of baby bottle-nosed dolphins. Mum gave the dolphins a hard look and told me to lay off the trifles and get back to school.

  Cherie placed a steadying hand on my arm. Her face was serious. ‘Paul Lamb and Ross Gibb said they’re going to pound you into a rissole.’

  ‘Why?’ I scanned the school grounds with a thumping heart.

  ‘They reckon you’re a pooftah. There’s a story about you trying something on Wayne in a newsagent.’

  I swallowed hard. No one was going to listen to me. Lamb and Gibb didn’t want the truth. They wanted to pound me into mincemeat and serve me to Wayne. Boys could do what they liked to poofters because no one was stupid enough to defend them. I was doomed. I had no allies and nowhere to hide.

  ‘You’d better keep away from Wayne.’

  ‘How can I keep away from him? I can’t stay home. Mum and Dad are getting a divorce and we’ve lost the colour TV.’ A sob flew out of my mouth. I wanted to explain that I was upset about the TV and not the divorce but I couldn’t get the words out.

  Cherie’s hand moved to my elbow. She propelled me across the road to the bus stop.

  ‘You should leave school and get a job. They’re taking on school-leavers at the Wool Board. Mum’s got a new boyfriend called Bruce who’s a fleece-grader. He could put a word in.’

  I imagined myself grading daggy fleeces in a windy barn and shuddered. Wool was not a career option. ‘Bruce doesn’t know anyone in television?’

  Cherie blinked.

  ‘I’d be interested in a position in Sydney or Melbourne.’

  ‘Julian, I can’t miss typing. We’re doing business letters and apparently they’re quite important. Stay here till the bus comes. You’ll be safe.’

  I looked around after Cherie left. The bus stop was anything but safe. It was directly across from the school entrance and consisted of a dinged metal timetable nailed to the side of a wooden pole. My thigh was thicker than the pole which was covered with swearwords. These had been carved into the wood with pocket knives by the likes of Lamb and Gibb. The next bus was in forty-five minutes, plenty of time to get rissolled.

  ‘Salut!’

  I lunged for the pole and swung myself behind it, pulling in my head to avoid a punch on the nose.

  ‘We’ve missed you.’ Mr Snell raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘That TV show had us all in stitches.’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be funny.’ I came out from behind the pole, trying to look as casual and French as possible.

  ‘You’re just being modest.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Why haven’t you been at school?’

  ‘I’ve been sick. The old lungs are playing up.’ I thumped my chest with my knuckles. The sound was dull, like a beer bottle falling on carpeted concrete. ‘Got too close to the neighbour’s pigeons. Fancier’s lung.’

  ‘What a comedian.’ He laughed again.

  Something moved behind Mr Snell, fast and unexpected like an anvil falling from the sky. It was Paul Lamb and he was doing a sitting wheel-stand on his souped-up Fireball bicycle. He’d planted his feet either side of the rear wheel and was leaning back hard against the sissy bar of his banana seat, Easy Rider style. Lots of boys had banana seats but only the toughest had sissy bars. The bigger the sissy bar, the bigger the bully.

  Mr Snell looked at his watch and turned to leave. I couldn’t let him abandon me. This was a matter of life or death.

  ‘They say you end up in an iron lung.’

  The teacher smiled good-humouredly and indicated that it was time to go.

  ‘It’s a very unattractive machine, sir. Your head sticks out and you look like a rotisserie-cooked chicken.’ I glanced across the road. Paul Lamb was now running a finger across his throat. My pulse rate soared. ‘The electricity costs a fortune. It’s like running a tumble-dryer day in, day out.’

  Mr Snell looked up at the sound of the school bell.

  ‘There’s not enough room in the house.’ My voice was high and desperate. ‘They’d probably set me up in the garage and run a power cable over the back lawn.’

  ‘It’s a fascinating story, Julian, but I have to go.’

  ‘But my parents are getting divorced!’ There it was again. I wasn’t worried about the divorce. It was the television. ‘Dad’s taken the colour TV!’

  Mr Snell smiled. ‘At least you’ll have room for the iron lung then. Ha, ha.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘You’re a riot!’ The teacher was still laughing as he crossed the road, shaking his head.

  Paul Lamb waited for Mr Snell to enter the grounds, then he shoved two fingers in his mouth like a sheep farmer. His piercing whistle made the hairs stand up on my arms and probably roused every border collie within five kilometres. Within seconds Ross Gibb and two other thugs had arrived on stripped-down bicycles with long ape-hanger handlebars. None of them had carriers because none of them carried schoolbags. The boys from the cricket pitch didn’t waste time on schoolwork. They had more important things to do – like rissolling poofters.

  I’d read in the Companion that time slowed during a car accident and a traumatised brain absorbed events in fine detail. The boys dropped their bikes and moved towards me in Hollywood slow motion. With the clarity of a trauma victim, I took in their greasy hair and spotty skin, traces of facial fluff and evidence of recent shaving. I’d just bought my first razor and hadn’t even taken it out of the packet. I imagined running the blade over cuts and bruises and felt like crying.

  I clutched the pole as the boys fanned out around me. Joan of Arc flashed through my mind as I dropped to my knees and put my hands over my face. The one thing I didn’t want was scars. I hunched my shoulders and waited for the blows.

  ‘Bully one! Bully two!’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I pulled my hands away and saw a miracle. Carmel was standing in front of Paul Lamb with her hockey stick raised. The rest of the hockey team had formed a noose around the boys.

  ‘Carmel!’

  My voice started off as a deep croak and ended in a squeak. I didn’t care. Carmel was the cavalry, a St Bernard with a barrel of brandy. I was saved.

  Paul Lamb sniggered and Carmel made her move. Her hockey stick slashed down, forward, then up, stopping just millimetres from his testicles. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

  ‘Piss off, the lot of you.’ Carmel looked at the boys with a scowl. ‘The Girls’ A hockey team has more important nuts to crack.’

  Paul Lamb squeaked.

  Carmel pointed to the school gate with her hockey stick and the cordon opened to let the boys pass. A couple of thugs made a show of swaggering but no one challenged the hockey team. No one ever did. Carmel watched them go before turning back to me.

  ‘Catch another bus.’

  I was watching Dick Dingle’s Midday Report in dreary black and white when Frank knocked on the back door. Afternoon was an odd time for him to call around. He should’ve been at school. He wasn’t even wearing his prefect’s jacket. I pushed the fly screen open and invited him into the dinette.

  ‘Hello, Frank.’

  ‘I thought you had a colour telly.’ Frank pointed to the flickering television through the open lounge door.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘That looks very black and white to me.’

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

  ‘Been suspended.’ Frank wasn’t the type to get into trouble. He was a prefect and the darling of th
e checkout girls. ‘It was a set-up. They said I pocketed money from the cordial stand.’

  ‘Why would they say that?’

  ‘They said ten dollars went missing.’

  ‘Why would they say that?’

  ‘Duncan Bacon saw me put it in my pocket.’

  ‘Did you put it back?’

  ‘I was getting around to it.’

  ‘Oh. How’s Cobber’s? Still on the express lane?’

  ‘Got laid off. A misunderstanding over a tip.’

  ‘Uh-huh. How’s Christine?’

  ‘Bonza. We went to Port Arthur on the bus and stayed in a motel. The room had a fridge with little bottles of drinks. There was even a colour TV.’ Frank narrowed his eyes at the flickering television. ‘We saw your show. Christine said you were real professional. She thought that Joe was a wanker.’

  ‘They cut out all the good stuff.’

  ‘You were probably set up.’ Frank nodded grimly. ‘Framed.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I felt something loosen in my chest. Frank understood. For the first time in over a month, I found myself smiling.

  ‘You’ve got to bounce back. Don’t let them win.’

  ‘I’ve already had offers of more TV work. I’m considering Melbourne or Sydney.’

  ‘With your mouth, you’ll probably be bigger than Dick Dingle one day.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that.’

  Frank was right, of course. I had to bounce back. One hiccup didn’t ruin a small-screen career. I felt inspired after he left and got out Mum’s rose-perfumed writing paper.

  Dear Joe,

  I was thoroughly impressed with your performance on TV. You’re a real professional. You’re also very handsome and charming. I love sideburns on a man. I call them mutton chops. Ha, ha. The life of a sound technician is a lonely one. I get quite hungry for male company, if you know what I mean. To be frank, you’re my type, a real man. Whiskers and all. Ha, ha.

  Please come to the Abracadabra Television studio next Wednesday evening at five. There is no need to call beforehand. Just come dressed for dinner in that lovely Cobber’s checked shirt. I have somewhere special to take you.

  With a big kiss,

  Valerie

  I got the address for Digger’s Hardware and posted the letter to Joe. There, at least I’d done something constructive. I felt a lot better.

  20

  I was trying to figure out what Elizabeth Taylor was wearing around her neck at the Academy Awards but the black-and-white television was hampering my research. Monochrome had an uncanny way of removing all pomp and glitter from an international gala. Liz may as well have been a Tasmanian Weight Watcher attending the dog trials. The diamond around her neck could’ve been a lump of pastry dough.

  I’d become quite an expert on pastry since quitting school. The short crust was a particular obsession. Through trial and error I’d discovered that the less flour I used, the faster the pastry dissolved in my mouth. I’d upped the butter and sugar content but a rich pastry made all the difference to a tangy lemon tart.

  Leaving school would’ve been impossible if Dad still lived in the house. Despite their differences, my parents had always formed a united front when it came to school, church and family. These were things you did regardless of whether or not they were worthwhile. Once the marriage collapsed, unnecessary institutions began to fall like dominoes. It was relatively easy to convince Mum that school was a waste of time. I just had to take over the kitchen and vacuum cleaner and make a few key changes to the way the house was run. My first improvement was the removal of all religious and sports paraphernalia. I then filled the cake tins and made sure the toilet seat was down and stayed down. The built-in bar was uprooted and moved to the rumpus room downstairs, which had now become the exclusive domain of Carmel and anything else related to sports.

  The only two real problems were the crap television and my impending financial crisis. Despite cutting down to four cigarettes a day, my savings from Cobber’s were rapidly running out. Mum was on drip feed from Dad who’d vowed to pay the legal minimum in family support and nothing more. The little she received, however, was still more than I had. Sacrifices had to be made.

  ‘Mum, can I have two dollars? We need butter.’

  ‘Again? But you bought butter yesterday.’

  ‘According to Graham Kerr, butter is the basis of all fine cuisine.’ I was a big fan of Kerr’s show, The Galloping Gourmet. Nearly everything he cooked had a French name and required butter and cream.

  ‘You watch too much television.’

  ‘Not as much since we lost the colour TV.’

  Mum sighed and rummaged in her handbag for her clip purse. She pulled it out and emptied its contents on to the Aussiemica bench top. There were only coins.

  ‘Just buy one block this time.’ She sighed again, heavily. ‘That’s all the money we’ve got till his nibs coughs up tomorrow.’

  Things would’ve been easier for Mum if she’d had a friend in a similar situation but all her former Boomerang workmates now avoided her. Mum said that separation was a disease married women didn’t want to catch. She could now call Norman without Dad’s interference but what she really needed was a friend for cinema and tea purposes. On good days she could look like a faded Natalie Wood but on bad days she looked empty, like a collapsed birthday balloon. We’d had a run of bad days.

  When I got back from Cobber’s Mum was sitting in the dinette with the remains of an afternoon tea in front of her. The Royal Albert had been set for two and my lemon tarts were displayed in the centre. She was dressed in her best skirt and blouse and had brushed her hair. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked ten years younger.

  ‘You look ten years younger, Mum.’ I counted the tarts on the plate and took the biggest. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘I’m going for a job. It’s time we sorted ourselves out.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I didn’t like the sound of ‘we’ but Mum hadn’t looked so good in weeks. Putting my own needs aside, I placed a tart on the plate at her elbow.

  ‘You can thank that Dolly. She called just after you left to say she was on her way. What a cow.’

  ‘Hereford heifer.’ I refilled Mum’s teacup and got to work on my tart.

  ‘She told me I’d been neglectful as a wife.’ Mum’s face hardened. ‘Yes, I told her, for nearly twenty years I’d neglected to notice her brother was a bastard.’

  I stopped chewing. Mum had never used the word ‘bastard’ in my hearing, ever. Another domino had fallen. Either she’d suddenly started swearing or she now thought I was old enough to deal with it. I sat up straighter.

  ‘She told me it takes two to tango. She said I wasn’t asking myself the difficult questions.’ Mum’s mouth was a hard line. ‘I told her, I should ask myself why I’ve tolerated her for so long. You should’ve seen her, frozen to the spot like a bag of Tucker Box peas. Then of course she said something about you. She said you were, you know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Like Liberace and all that. I told her at least I’m not a grandmother yet.’

  ‘Surely not…’

  ‘She may as well be the way that Sharon carries on.’

  ‘But isn’t Sharon only fourteen?’

  ‘She wears her skirts too short.’

  ‘But Carmel’s hockey skirt is short.’

  ‘Carmel’s the sporty type.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Sharon’s not.’

  Mum took a bite of her tart and screwed up her face. ‘What on earth?’

  ‘I’ve been perfecting the pastry.’

  ‘It’s pure butter and sugar.’ She shook her head and stared at my chest. ‘This has to stop, Julian. We’ve got to pull ourselves together.’

  My mother woke me at six to ask whether she looked all right. She was wearing her favourite rose-pink dress with dressy maroon sandals. I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. Mum’s outfit required my full attention. She’d landed a job at the Wool Board a
s the cafeteria cashier.

  ‘Give us a whirl, Mum.’

  She spun around with her arms outstretched.

  ‘Perfect.’ Her handbag matched her sandals. ‘Just let me give the back of your hair a fluff.’

  Mum had come prepared. She handed me a comb and can of hairspray and then sat down on the edge of the bed. I got to work while she did her face in a hand mirror. When I’d finished, she stood and did another twirl.

  ‘Even perfecter.’

  ‘Tell Carmel to go see her father before school. I haven’t got time to see the idiot today and we’re out of money again.’

  By ten o’clock I was convinced that Carmel was not getting up for school. There was no bread or butter in the house and I’d smoked half my quota of John Player Specials for the day. Something had to be done.

  To get to the lower half of the house, I had to climb underneath an old velvet curtain that Carmel had rigged up over the spiral staircase. It was pitch dark underneath and the smell of Tickworth lager rose up to meet me as I began my descent. I knew that she’d been celebrating and I feared the violence of a hangover. The previous evening I’d heard Helen Reddy and female laughter coming from the rumpus room.

  ‘Carmel.’

  I kept my voice low and soft. My sister hadn’t punched me for a while but I didn’t want to tempt fate. Her arms were like table legs.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and touched down on carpet. I couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘Carmel.’

  The room was filled with the faint whooshing of sleep. Raising my arms in front of me like a cartoon sleepwalker, I felt around for the safety of the wall and its light switch. I circled a few times but then lost my bearings. My arms were moving in empty space.

  Someone snorted. Glass clinked. With horror, I realised that there was more than one person in the room. Dad could wait.